Ambrosia

Friday night, Parker, Eloise, Willow, and I have a gig booked at O’Farrell’s Irish Pub and I’m hoping they’re paying in straight tequila.

“How are the wedding plans?” I ask Willow as we get prepped in a storage closet behind the stage.

She huffs out a sigh. “Martin can’t decide which invitations he likes best, there’s a big to-do over whether or not the king’s stepdaughter should be allowed to get married in the abbey, not that anyone’s asked me if I want to get married in the abbey or if I’d prefer a nice quiet ceremony on a boat in the fjords, or, you know, to have it here in New York, and Martin’s great-aunt Greta sent me a box of vintage seventies lingerie that she expects me to model and send her pictures of. Oh, and I caught my landlord pawing through the box in the lobby. He says it was open and he was checking it for bombs.”

We all blink at her.

“You want me to take care of him?” Eloise offers.

“As soon as we’re married, I’ll move in with Martin, and all of this will be a distant memory.”

They’re waiting for marriage to move in together. It’s kinda sweet, except for the part where it took Martin seven years to propose. Among other things.

“Enough of the wedding.” She straightens a brass Buddha on the shelves. “Did work get better this week?”

As long as Chase Jett owns Crunchy, I’m fairly certain work there will never be better for me.

“I cold-called the Rangers today,” I announce. “They said, and I quote, Sia Berger? Riiiiiiiight. Good luck with your medication, honey.”

“Ridiculous,” Eloise says. “The Kiss Cam shut off before the show went X-rated. This is discrimination.”

“No, this is my brothers. Fifty bucks says Zeus told them a crazy woman pretending to be his sister would call and ask about a job.”

“Your brothers are so fucking cool.”

Parker scowls at me. She’s on a stool, and she gives one of her guitar’s tuning knobs a vicious crank. While I spent today getting shit for the Kiss Cam video—which, yes, went viral within five seconds and I’ve had to talk my mother off a ledge at least six times a day the last two days—Parker was getting promoted to head of marketing. A position she totally deserves and will completely rock at, but also a position I might’ve been considered for if, you know, Vassar. And no Grand Theft Bratwurst Wagon on my record.

“You are not quitting Crunchy,” she says. “First of all, you’re brilliant and we need you. Second, you’re being an excellent role model with all of the discretion you’ve shown in refusing to talk about Chase at work. If you exclude whatever’s going on with you and the snack bar lady, anyway. And third, if you leave, I’m going to drill holes in your apartment ceiling so you can hear Hogzilla’s mating call even louder.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.” Parker could’ve easily been my older sister. She’s strong, she’s devious, and while she’ll rip me to shreds when it’s just the two of us, she’ll defend me to the end against outside evil, and I’d do the same for her.

“I’d help her,” Willow says. “Chase has some really great ideas for Crunchy. My mom said he talked to my stepdad this morning. The king has some holdings in US agriculture, and he’s apparently considering some kind of partnership. Sia, I know it’s been a rough week, but you’ve always loved Crunchy. Don’t do anything rash, okay? I’d hate to see you miss out on an amazing opportunity at a company you adore just because of a man.”

I’m doing my best to ignore that my friends are calling him by name too. Something changed at the game Wednesday night, and not just the part where we’re suddenly gossip fodder on Page Six. Or the part where my mother’s taken up drinking.

Yes, yes, it’s watered-down wine coolers, but for Mom, that’s like doing vodka shots off an ice luge. She has the shoulders of Norwegian Vikings and the alcohol tolerance of a toddler. Some things, you just can’t explain.

Like this irrational wish I’m doing my best to ignore that Chase will show up tonight and watch us play.

So I can torture him what my talented fingers can do.

Yep.

It’s all about the torture.

Definitely not about wanting to show off. Wanting him to see me shine.

Wanting him to be impressed.

And, you know, turned on. Going primal, barging onto the stage, tossing the instruments out of his way, throwing me over his shoulder and taking me back to his place where we can bang each other’s brains out all night long.

Nope, definitely none of that going on here. That’s disgusting. I’ve seen quite enough of Chase Jett’s hard, flexible, sinful body to last a lifetime.

“Five minutes, ladies.”

My friends are staring at me.

“Did you invite him?” Eloise asks.

“What? Who? My brothers? No, they’d come galloping up on the stage and steal the show. They’re such spotlight hogs.”

I get a triple hit of Don’t play dumb, Sia.

“I’d have to like him to invite him,” I grumble.

“Oh, honey,” Willow sighs.

Eloise snorts. “Don’t lose your place in the set list,” she tells me. “I like this place. I’d play here again, but they have to ask us first.”

I sling an arm around her shoulder and squeeze. “I love you guys.”

I might be unemployed by Tuesday, but I’ll always have my band.